The Last American (p. 5)

The Last American
Dru Parrish

“No one writes like Hemingway anymore, I’ll tell ya.”
No need. His heart became the arms
of an age that pulled a generation
into the sea when all that was known was
the Atlantic.

“Imagine what arms! My, my, my.
Holding the gaze of Hard men
with journal eyes. Speaking glory
through callused hands.”

I paused him. Smoked cursive lungs
and set this thought;
--But with them, nothing’s the same now
no more wars to win, nothing left to wrestle

“...
They’d have to be steady.
Tremors don’t doubt sure hands
composure thick, even at the end
when they have but one way out.
They do not waver at fate.
Boredom kills all ancient lions.”